Opal Fires

by Lynda Trent

  “But what about your signature? It can’t be binding on you unless you signed.”

  “I don’t know yet how Elliot did it, but it’s my signature on the loan. I’d never be able to prove that I was tricked into signing that paper. The notary public that witnessed the signatures works for the bank, too.”

  Marla whistled softly. “Looks like you’re stuck. And Elliot took it all? Without telling you? That’s really rough!”

  Clare gazed out of the back window toward the lagoon-shaped pool. “Thorndyke said I owe nine thousand dollars in back payments, immediately.”

  This time, Marla didn’t answer. No words were adequate.

  “I sold Elliot’s gun collection and even managed to unload all those hideous trophy heads, but I’m still four thousand short.”

  “Listen, Clare, I can loan you the money. I can do it without telling Tom. It’ll be okay. You can pay me back whenever you can.”

  “No. I hate being in debt. You know how I feel about that.”

  “You’ll be paying us back. It’s not a gift. For goodness sake, what are friends for?”

  Clare smiled. “I appreciate it, Maria. I really do. But I have to stand on my own two feet.”

  “Won’t Neal give you more time? Maybe I could have Tom talk to him. They play golf together almost every Sunday.”

  “No. Thanks, but I have to handle this myself. I know it must sound as though I’m ungrateful, but it’s about time I learned to solve my own problems.” She recalled Thorndyke’s proposition. If she would allow herself to become his mistress, he’d delay the paperwork until she could raise the money. But the thought of having to prostitute herself made her feel sick.

  She turned back to Marla. “Anyway, assuming I can raise the mortgage money, I’ve been trying to think of ways to earn a living.”

  “You could always go to work in one of the dress stores. With your tast and reputation for style, they might even hire you on as a fashion consultant,” Mark suggested.

  “I just couldn’t, Mark. Regina and all her friends would be coming in and looking down their noses at me. You know how sarcastic she is toward me already. That would be just what she’d like.” Clare realized it sounded like false pride speaking, but it really wasn’t. Regina would take any advantage that came along and Clare had to do her best to minimize that. Besides, since Maria had always had money, she had no true conception of what it was like to be on the other side of the fence. Those memories were still vivid in Clare’s mind.

  “Well,” Marla suggested uncertainly. “you could probably got a job as a receptionist, or maybe a switchboard operator.”

  “What I have in mind is teaching art. I have it all down on paper. See?” She knelt beside her friend’s chair and pointed out the figures she had jotted down earlier. “If I can get nine students for lessons twice a week, I can get by.”

  Maria read the list carefully. “You know, I think you have something here.”

  “I’d have two separate groups. Maybe one group with four in the early afternoon and the other with five at night. That way, I could reach the women whose children are in school, and the ones who work. Look!” She stood up and crossed the room to the back door that led to the glassed-in portico. “I could teach out there. It’s airconditioned and the oil paint wouldn’t hurt the Mexican quarry tiles. It overlooks the pool as well as the willow trees and the rose garden, so its inspirational.” Her eyes were bright with excitement.

  “You’re right It’s perfect! And not only that, think how many people would like to say they come to the Marshall mansion to paint. This could become a status symbol!”

  “I never thought of that! And by teaching on the patio, the students can come to the class without coming through the house.”

  “Good idea. It’s amazing how much paint can be tracked across a carpet after an art lesson. You never realize you’ve stepped in it until you see the trail behind you.” She grimaced. “Not to mention the invasion of your privacy. You are, after all, giving lessons, not holding open house.” Marla had painted on an amateur level for years, and had taken

  lessons from many of the local artists. “Besides, if you teach, say, in an inside room, like the den, your entire house will reek of turpentine. Now, where can you get students?” She frowned over the puzzle, then brightened. “I know. If you don’t mind doing a few free classes, you could volunteer to teach at some of the women’s groups. You know, give them just a taste and tell them you’re starting classes?”

  “That’s a good idea. I can put ads in the papers, too in Kilgore and all the surrounding towns. And, advertise on the bulletin boards in art stores.” Clare’s pencil flew across the paper as she made notes. “For supplies, the students will need a medium-sized canvas, say fourteen by eighteen, or eighteen by twenty-four. Also, two small sable brushes and two large bristle ones. A paper palette and a palette knife. Oil medium, turpentine and rags to clean their brushes on. Now for the paint.”

  “If you teach the underpainting method, you’ll only need black, browns and white. That means less initial outlay. They won’t need color until it’s time to glaze the painting.”

  “True. It’s also easier to teach a person to mix paints if you don’t have to consider the neutralizing effects. I think I’ll start off with that technique. If I have enough people who want to learn direct painting, I’ll make a separate list of colors for them.”

  “Don’t forget pencils to sketch out the picture and fixative to set the lead on the canvas. And, a smock to cover their clothes. Lord, I must have ruined a dozen blouses just by forgetting to cover myself up.”

  “I wish I had done all this sooner,” Clare said as she moved to a chair beside the couch. “I feel as if I’m in charge now, for the first time in a long time.”

  “Elliot would have had a fit if you’d told him you wanted to teach on the portico,” Marla snorted. She had never liked Clare’s husband.

  “I know, I did suggest it once. You know, Marla, all my life I’ve relied on someone else to take care of me and tell me what to do. I depended on everyone but myself. Now I’m standing up alone, and it feels good!”

  Marla grinned at her friend. “Sure, kid, I understand what you mean. I’ve been lucky that Tom never tries to put me under his thumb.”

  Clare laughed. “I can’t even imagine you being submissive. In college, you were a rabble-rouser if there ever was

  “The rabble needed rousing. By the way, do you have a Coke? I feel like I’m turning to dust.”

  “Sure. Help yourself.” Clare nodded toward the kitchen. “Bring me one, too.” She was wondering how many garden stakes Eldon would have to do without in order for her to make easels.

  Marla came back with a frosty can in each hand. “Here you go. No need to get glasses dirty.”

  “I want to sell my own paintings, too. I thought I’d load some into the car and go to the different galleries around here and see if I can get them out in front of the public.” Clare smiled her thank as she took the cold can from Marla, took a sip and placed it on the table beside her chair.

  “Good idea. I know several art dealers in Dallas and Houston. Of course, that doesn’t mean you can automatically get anything hung there, but at least it will get you in the door. It never hurts to have contacts in the art business.”

  Clare smiled at her. “Do you get the feeling that if I knew what I was doing, I’d be afraid to do it?”

  “Sure. Any minute now, I expect Mickey Rooney to pop out and say, ‘I just know we can save the Widow Benson’s farm!’ But it stiff sounds like a great idea. You’re good. Why not put all that talent to work?”

  “Still, this doesn’t do a thing about saving the land from foreclosure. I can keep my house and lifestyle, but I want the farm, too.”

  “Have you thought of anything else you can sell? Maybe some silver or those china pieces you had Betty pack up and put in the attic.”

  She shook her head. “I’ve already thought of that, but Elliot thought of it
first. He sold them. I also thought of selling the Mercedes, but I couldn’t get enough for it and I’d still have to buy another car.”

  Marla nodded. “That car would look impressive pulling up to art shows, too. Don’t sell your image down the tube. If you’re going for the real money, you have to look the part. The artists that look like rejects from a hippie colony end up selling their pictures by the side of the road.”

  ”I’m going to make it, Maria,” Clare said seriously. “I. really am. And I’m going to find a way to keep the farm as well. You know, Elliot’s a lucky man.”

  “In what way?”

  “In that I can’t get my hands on him.”

  Maria lifted her Coke in a salute.

  Chapter Four

  The desk top was littered with pieces of paper as Clare sat in the den laboriously trying to condense her words for an ad in the paper. The day had been tiring. She and Eldon had managed to complete only two easels before supper. Afterward, a long, hot bath had relaxed her enough to attempt writing the advertisement.

  The desk lamp cast a pale light on the pine walls, making them glow like warm honey. She had hung some of her paintings and had brought in a large potted palm to soften one comer. In the gun cabinet, she draped a small tapestry she’d found in the attic and filled the shelves with woodcarvings and ceramic pieces she’d collected over the years. The one remaining gun had been placed in a drawer in the living room, as this was a more central location. Now the room felt more feminine, more her own.

  Clare pushed back the sleeve of her pink velour robe as if that would make her think more precisely. It was difficult keeping what she had to say short and at the same time making the lessons sound enticing.

  In the entryway, the doorbell chimed melodiously.

  “Who could that be at this time of night?” she grumbled.

  Betty had already left the house. “Maybe if I don’t answer, whoever it is will go away.” She turned back to the paper.

  The bell sounded again.

  Her visitor could see the light from the den, she realized, and must have known she was home. Clare frowned as the bell rang once more, this time more urgently. Could something have happened to one of the neighbors?

  Reluctantly, she got up and stepped into the entryway. She could see a man’s bulk through the side window.

  “Tom?” she called out. “Is that you?”

  The man straighted at the sound of her voice and called out a muffled reply.

  “What? I didn’t understand you,” Clare said as she unlocked the door. “Is Maria…?” Her voice dwindled away as she swung the door open to reveal not Tom Gentry, but Neal Thorndyke, on her front porch.

  Her mouth dropped open and she became very aware that she wore only a wraparound robe over her gossamer nightgown. And that she was totally alone in the house.

  “Mr. Thorndyke!” she exclaimed as he maneuvered past her and into the hall. “What… Why…?”

  “Neal, my dear, Neal. You keep forgetting. What am I doing here? Well, I happened to be driving by and thought I’d drop in.” His flat green eyes moved down from her tumbled hair, still damp from her bath, to where the curve of her breast was revealed as her robe gaped away from her body.

  Clare blushed and pulled her robe more securely around her. “I don’t see why you’re here… Neal. My note isn’t due until tomorrow.” Did he know she hadn’t been able to raise the money? Apprehension made the blood pound in her temples. Her lips parted slightly as they always did when she was disconcerted.

  “Come, come now. We don’t need to stand on formalities, do we? It’s so hard to get anything done at the bank. Phones are always ringing, people always coming in with messages.” He laughed jovially. “I don’t mind telling you, it’s a rat race at times.” He had crossed the entry and was going into the living room.

  Clare had no choice but to follow him. He flipped on a light switch as naturally as if he owned the house, and sat down on the couch.

  “You don’t mind if I sit down, do you?”

  Uneasily, Clare shook her head. When he’d passed by her, she’d smelled scotch on his breath and had noticed his somewhat unsteady gait.

  “Can I get you a cup of coffee?” she asked reluctantly. More than anything else she wanted to get rid of him, but if he really was here on business, she could hardly imply he had ulterior motives.

  “Coffee? No, no. I wouldn’t care for any. Say, you wouldn’t have a drop of scotch around, now would you?”

  “No,” she quickly lied.

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “That’s all right. I had a nip before I left home.” He laughed again and loosened his tic as if from the heat. “This weather has been rough, hasn’t it? I can’t recall a hotter summer. You don’t mind if I loosen my tie, do you?” he asked as he unbuttoned the collar button of his shirt.

  “It’s bound to rain soon,” Clare said absently as she tried to comprehend the man’s actions. She felt so very alone. No one could bear her if she screamed. As tactfully as she could, she said, “Since I live on a dead-end street, we don’t have many people ‘driving by. What exactly did you want to talk to me about, Mr. Thorndyke?”

  “Neal.”

  “I prefer to call you Mr. Thorndyke,” she said nervously. “Why are you here?”

  He gave her his peculiarly blank gaze. “As you know, the bank note is due tomorrow.” He picked up a marble gazelle from the end table and rubbed it possessively between his fingers. “Have you been able to raise the money?”

  Clare paled but lifted her chin defiantly. “Not yet, but I still have until the bank closes tomorrow.”

  Neal Thorndyke shook his large head sadly, as if he had expected just such an answer. “That’s what I was afraid of. I see it so often. Our economic system is so unfair. So terribly unfair.” He looked around the room as if he expected soon to own it.

  “I haven’t given up yet,” Clare protested, fighting back her tears. “I’ll find a way. You’ll see.” Fatigue, both physical and emotional, had weakened Clare, but her determination was steadfast.

  The large man heaved himself off the couch and placed the gazelle back on the table. He came to stand by her in the

  center of the room. “I’m sure we can work something out,” he said softly, as if someone might overhear him. “There’re ways around these things.” He raised his hamlike hand and placed it on her slender shoulder.

  Clare’s heart beat like a frightened bird in a trap. She wanted to flinch and pull away, but forced herself to show no fear. She had no way to raise the money, and the land was so very important to her. Maybe this was the only way. It would be so simple, really. All she had to do was not protest.

  Encouraged by her silence, Thorndyke’ moved his thumb off the robe and onto the velvety skin of her neck. When she remained stock still, he stroked downward, pushing the cloth from her skin. It fell back, exposing the curve of her full breasts beneath the sheer fabric of her nightgown. Lifting his other hand, he pushed the robe from her shoulders. It slipped off her arms and over her clenched fists to fall at her feet. In his excitement, Thorndyke failed to notice that Clare was not merely compliant, but was rigid with fear.

  His eyes narrowed cruelly as he contemplated what he wanted to do with her body. “As you probably know, Clare, I’ve been more or less alone since my wife left me. A man gets lonely.” He had hoped she’d be less docile, but her youth and beauty would more than make up for that. Besides, he had ways of bringing the fight out in a woman; he’d have her clawing and fighting against him before the night was over. He planned to have the proud Clare Marshall begging for pity before dawn. The thought pleased him. Slowly, savoring the moment, he grasped the shoulder straps of her gown and began to pull them down to expose her fully rounded breasts.

  Clare fought the nausea that was building inside her. Be still! she commanded her body. It’ll be over soon! But it had been so long since anyone had touched or even looked at her naked body, and to have to resort to this degradation a
lmost choked her. His fetid breath and faint, but noticeable, body odor repulsed her, and she trembled at the touch of his hands, which were too soft.

  As he grabbed her breast and began to knead it roughly, she felt outrage begin to spread through her, galvanizing her into action.

  He pulled her to him and sank his mouth to the cool curve of her throat. She moaned in protest as his teeth nipped her sharply. “No!” she hissed through clenched teeth. His fingers

  cruelly pinched her tender nipple and his hot breath gasped raggedly below her car. ” No!”

  She would not prostitute herself, not even for her beloved land. Clare shoved him as hard as she could. Caught off guard, Thorndyke stumbled and fell onto the couch.

  “Get out of my house!” she cried, grabbing the .38 revolver out of the table drawer. “Get out of here! Now!” Hysteria had replaced shock. Tears streamed down her face as the barrel of the gun waggled dangerously.

  “Now, Clare! Mrs. Marshall!” Thorridyke protested quickly, instantly sober. “Don’t get excited!”

  “Go away!” she cried. “Get out!”

  Thorndyke leaped from the couch and crossed the room in one stride. At the front door, he hesitated and pointed his finger at her. “You’d better come up with that money, or else! Don’t think you can wheedle any more time out of me!” He blanched as she aimed the revolver at his chest. As he jumped out into the night, he called back, “Tomorrow! You’d better have the money tomorrow!”

  Clare heard him run across the porch and down the steps. Tires squealed, and she knew he had gone. Only then did she run across the entryway and slam the door shut, throwing the bolt into place. Weakly, she leaned against the safety of the barricade.

  The full import of what she’d almost done beat upon her, causing her to sink onto the cold tiles, trying to cover her nakedness with crossed arms as sobs tore through her body.